


apples and oranges

by Anemoi



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 17:26:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3945406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iker and David and a phone conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	apples and oranges

**Author's Note:**

> i apologize for the chronology of this thing. and the fruit. so much fruit. Roughly set between David's 40th birthday and the second leg of the CL semi-final match against Juve, and Iker being whistled in the Bernabeu by RM "fans" during the Valencia game.

“ _San Iker is well on the road to de-canonization.”_

 

_-_

Iker picks up the phone and dials a number. He's got a good memory, he knows. He remembers the scoreline of most matches he's played in, picture perfect. But he isn't going to kid himself that the reason he knew the number by heart, electronic chipper sound the buttons make playing a familiar melody in to his ear, was because he's dialed it too many times to count. 

He dials in the last digit too this time. It was a 7, minor key. 

David picks up and says, “Hello, Iker.” And Iker closes his eyes for a brief moment, heart stopping. 

“Hello. David.”

 

* * *

 

_(1. Strawberries_

“Hey, David!” Iker says, “Hey, Goldenballs!” 

David turns around and sprays him with his water bottle, Iker laughing and dodging out of the way even though the water was nowhere near him. David's advancing on him with a look on his face that says  _You little shit,_ barely able to hold back a smile. Iker surrenders and waits for him, hand holding his gloves propped on his hip. 

Its very early in the summer but it was still too warm, Iker fidgeting under his training shirt and every time he peeled off his gloves they'd be wet on the inside, perspiration trickling down bottles of half empty lucozade left everywhere. Iker looks at David, who's taking his time walking back, like he was wary Iker would run if approached too fast. 

“Hurry up, old man.” Iker says, shading his eyes with the flat of his hand. The sun's shining right in to his eyes so he has to squint at David, blurry shape getting bigger and bigger till it dissolves in to David's familiar crinkly eyes, hard line of his mouth turned up in a smile. 

David hits him on the shoulder, palm flat. “Who're you calling old?” 

Iker shrugs and reaches out a hand for David's bottle. David hands it over, and it would almost be natural if he didn't look at Iker drinking. Iker makes it a show, hollows his cheeks out too long and his lips pop off the top with an obscene sound. 

David clears his throat. They walk back across the training ground, just the two of them again taking too long to get back in to the changing room. The grass was lush on the sides of the pitches, where the groundsmen hadn't gotten to them yet and weren't as worn out by the constant stamping boots. It tickled the side of Iker's ankles through his socks. 

“Come over? Victoria made scones.” 

“What the fuck are scones?” Iker says slowly, enunciating the swearword with glee, enjoying how the syllables stuttered off his tongue. _Fuck_ is a nice english word, crisp and succinct. 

David sighs, long suffering. “Scones. They're like... just come over. They're strawberry.” 

Iker huffs and looks away. He glances back a beat later, and catches David looking at him, something half desperate in his eyes. Iker catches his wrist and pulls him in, David falling over with a shout. 

They end up tussling on the pitch like five year olds, truce declared when Iker wheezes out a laughing apology and David says,  _About time, I can't breath._ They lie on the pitch tangled, even though it was too warm, Iker closing his eyes against the sun glinting off David's blonde hair.)

 

* * *

 

“Is it warm in Madrid yet?” David asks, and he somehow makes it not sound awkward. He somehow makes it seem like an offhand thing to say in the middle of a casual conversation, rather than a desperate bid to keep the conversation from falling apart.

“Its. uh. It's very, it's too warm for spring. Almost like the middle of summer.” Iker says, and winces at how rusty his english was. He could never find the right words. They've exhausted the casual conversation topics, David's birthday, Iker's family. Football hasn't come up yet. Put aside the sport and they're two men on parallel lines, not even sharing the same language, a million miles from each other.

“I saw the score for the last match. Valencia, right?” David says in to the silence, finally.

Iker sighs. “Yes. Valencia.” And then he swears a little, and David laughs, relieved, like he recognizes the familiar syllables, or maybe it was just the way Iker said them.

“Where are you?” Iker asks, settling down on the couch. Sara had a bowl of fruit sitting on the coffee table, although Iker always said that made them spoil too fast. Iker picks an apple out of the bunch and eats it absently.

“France. Paris.” David says, then sighs. “It's quite chilly here, to be honest. Victoria's out with the kids today and I just have to stay in and-” His voice cuts off and Iker is left to fill in the blanks. David's probably making that half shrug, hand extended gesture. Iker suddenly gets the strange urge to ask if he still folded origami. It was a weird quirk, one that Iker remembered well. Paper boats stuffed in Iker's kit after practice. Paper frogs hidden in Iker's gloves. Cranes littering Iker's bedside table. He wants to say _David. I still remember. I remember you putting everything at right angles to each other. I remember you once took all the clothes out of my closet and rearranged them in color codes. I don't know what to do with these facts._

“Iker? Still there?” David says. 

“Yes. I was just. Thinking.” 

David pauses, then says, carefully like he's weighing his words, “You're not thinking about the game still, are you? You can't let it get to you, yeah?”

Iker smiles and rubs his eyes. “No, I'm not.”

“Sure?” 

“Of course, David. How long have you known me?” Iker says. “I know what people will say, every time. It doesn't bother me.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

( _2\. Apples_  

Long summer days and David's on his couch, watching reruns of spanish dubbed movies with the subtitles on, the sound muted. There's no sound by the calming whirr of air conditioning through the vent, tiles cool under Iker's bare feet, all the windows shut against the humidity and the heat.

“How is it _this hot_ this early in the year?” David complains, eyes half closed and wrist limp, hand half clutching the remote. Iker shrugs and flops down next to him, stretches out.

“Anything to eat?” David asks, pouts like a child.

“Apples. In the freezer.” Iker says, not taking his eyes off the television. “Why is sound off?”

David laughs at him, launches himself off the couch and stands with a wince, ruffles Iker's hair as he passes by him.

“You want?” He tosses over his shoulder.

“Yeah.” Iker says. He unmutes the television in time for the bride to start tearfully condemning her would be husband, right at the alter.

David's gone for ages. Finally the credits start rolling (its a happy ending- but satisfying, where everyone finally gets what they want after all the tears and drama) and Iker gets up to find David.

“Did you have to go pick them from the trees, David?” He's grumbling. Iker liked apples. He ate them with a quick rinse under the tap, relishing the crunch of it under his teeth, crispy skin that stuck to his tongue. The fresher ones had a sweet vinegary taste, and a floral scent that made it seem like he was chewing rose petals.

David had sliced them up, neatly. The apples lay in pieces, cored and carefully placed one on top of another, David humming as he peeled the last one with a knife.

He looks up and offers the plate to Iker. Iker shrugs, shoves four in his mouth in one go, then makes a face. “Whats wrong?” David says, frowns a little.

“Better with the peel.” Iker says through the mouthful, “'s too soft like this.”

David just looks at him, shaking his head like he doesn't know what to say. Iker chomps through the last bites and then grins, sly. He pushes David against the counter, smiles in to his neck, lips still sticky from the apple juice. David's arms come around him, automatic, his heart a thudding erratic thing caught birdlike between their chests. Iker folds himself around David, no room left for anything at all, and kisses him.

David licks his lips when they break apart, and Iker laughs.)

 

* * *

 

 

A man is just a man until he saves. Or rather- A man is just a man until he's martyred for the cause _._ A saint is a saint until he lets in too many balls, like every one that hits the net is a tarnish on his halo. Iker didn't want to be someone who thought,  _Maybe I'm not good enough anymore,_ but it was there, inescapable. Iker doesn't run from his problems. Iker doesn't run because if he stands long enough he can find a way to face the problem. Iker doesn't run, because there was no use to running, because no matter how fast you ran the ball was faster, because- 

He'd asked David before,  _how does it feel to score a goal?_ David trying to explain the moment before scoring, his elbow resting on Iker's stomach, hands gesticulating in the air. His fingers draw imaginary shapes, a net, a goal, Iker zoning out until David pinches him in the side,  _hey, Iker, are you even listening to me?_

Iker didn't bother looking guilty, flops over and kisses David till he's stuttering and can't speak, then grins, lazy.

He listens when David recovers enough to describe that moment, the ball against his boot, the uncertain hope of it, euphoria when he sees it hitting the back of the net. _I felt like I could do anything._

He doesn't have to describe it, to Iker, who's mildly fascinated that it was the inverse of what he felt when he sees the ball hit the net. David says,  _So? Do you wish you'd become a striker instead?_ Half teasing, half curious. 

Iker doesn't bother describing it. He doesn't have the right words for it anyway, the certain knowledge of leaping one way and then feeling the ball hit his gloves and rebound and then do it again three seconds later in a different direction. Action. Reaction. His heart in his own hands. 

 

 

“How's the team doing for the second leg against Juventus?” David asks.

Iker shrugs even though David couldn't see him, says, “We're training. Everyone is working hard. Now it's just- waiting.”

David makes a sympathetic sound.

“Are you going to watch?” Iker says, bounces the remote on his leg absently. He switches on the tv and mutes it. It's set to a fashion program, so Iker switches the channel, then again, keeps pressing the forward button and watching the pixellated faces change shape.

“Oh. No, I don't think so. I've got a, I have a thing coming up that night. 13Th?”

“Yes.”

“You'll do fine though. I know you will.” David's voice was warm. It was strange, this presumption, given that now they barely know each other. Eight years is enough time for people to change, after all. Maybe Iker's predictable. Maybe David doesn't read tabloids listing Casillas' poor form and his fall from grace.

“Thank you.” Iker says, even though it wasn't really fitting, and it comes out a little dry. David laughs again, and Iker remembers how they laughed before, laughed so hard he'd cried. When was the last time he did that?

“No, really.” David says, and then- “Did you know Victoria nearly paid someone to install a ball pit in our backyard for my birthday?”

Iker laughs, surprising himself. “No, I didn't.”

“She didn't in the end.” David sounds wistful. “She said maybe a ball pit on a yacht for my 50th, so there's something to look forward to.”

Iker laughs again, though something hurts in the thought behind _David Beckham, 50._

 

* * *

 

( _3\. Grapes_

 

“Chew fast.” Iker says, rolling his eyes.

David scoffs, but keeps his elbows braced against the kitchen counter. He has his mouth half open, Iker with a bowl of grapes sitting right across him, barely keeping in a smirk.

“Are you wearing it?”

Now it's David's turn to roll his eyes, not answering. Iker prods his knee under the table. “You can talk right now. 2 minutes until midnight.”

David snaps his mouth shut and then opens it immediately again, says, “ _Yes._ I'm wearing _your_ red boxers, even though they're not really red anyway. You and your dumb spanish customs.”

Iker swats him, pops a grape in his mouth. “It's lucky.”

Theres a cheer from outside as everyone starts to count down in unison, and Iker gestures for David to be ready, earning another eye roll and a huff.

_3- 2- 1-_

Iker grins as the fireworks start and the bells toll, and David's eyes widen, like he'd suddenly realized it was a terrible idea except it was all too late. Iker shoves a grape in David's mouth, David chewing obediently, and then another one, and another one, till all 12 grapes were gone from the bowl.

The last bell tolls and David rubs his jaw, wincing. Iker raises his eyebrows and David opens his mouth, waggles his tongue like _look. All done._

Iker laughs, delighted. He claps David on the back as they walk out of the kitchen to be mugged enthusiastically by everyone outside, drunk on expensive champagne and the dizzying promise of a brand new year.

 

 

“Happy 2007.” Iker says later, much later, when it's almost morning and he's in David's bed, under the sheets and the champagne's almost worn off.

David doesn't say anything, so Iker sticks his head out from under the sheets and prods him. “David?”

“I think I'm leaving in the summer.” David says, very softly. “France, maybe. Or America.”

Iker's quiet for a bit. “Is it Victoria?”

David shakes his head, blurry shape in the blue dawn. “No. It's time to go, I think.”

Iker says, “Okay.”

“Okay?” David sits up and looks at him. His voice might have wavered, but it was hard to be sure. “Just. Okay?”

“Yeah.”

There's a pause, but Iker didn't have anything else to say, so it was unfilled, and David lies back down, and Iker slings an arm across him, buries his face in David's shoulder.)

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Why did you call me, Iker?” David says quietly, like he was asking for a confession.

Iker stops flicking through the channels and sets the remote down beside him. He thinks about the ten Champions League trophies nestled in the illuminated quiet of the Bernabeu. Winning everything he'd ever dreamt of. He thinks about 2 posts and a net. He thinks about holding his own heart in his gloves. He thinks about Sara's hair, soft shimmery brown wave of it. Martin's blue eyes. He thinks,  _how can you have everything and still want more?_

“I don't know.” He says, honestly.

David chuckles, not sounding a bit broken. 

“The apples are nice in LA, you know.” David says, careful.

“They're good in Madrid too.” Iker says. “And Lisbon. And London, and Paris.”

“Hey now, it's not quite apple season in France is it?” David says, teasing.

Iker smiles, chest aching. He doesn't answer, so the conversation falls in to a lull again, faint crackles of the connection between them. Iker goes to the kitchen and sits down, props his legs on the rungs of the chair. There are oranges sitting in a bowl, fresh ones with leaves still clinging to the stalks. He picks one up and absently peels it, holding the phone between his ear and his shoulder.

Then David asks, “Iker. Are you happy?”

Iker puts the orange down. He looks at his hands, already stained a little yellow, fragrant with a citrusy mist. He looks out of the window. It's too early for cicadas this time of the year, but he can already hear them, somehow. The trees would be heavy with them, the sound a comforting background white noise.

Its quiet in the kitchen.

 

 

* * *

 

( _4\. Oranges_

It's almost summer again, the leaves growing in lush and green so fast it's disorientating. It's not warm, this year, still a chill left in the air some mornings more often than not. It's one of the last times, Iker on David's couch again, television playing reruns of something that wasn't football. Iker peels an orange, more out of boredom than anything else. He thinks about the next matches, and how close they were to finally winning the league title. _It's the grapes,_ he thinks, smiling to himself.

He sinks his teeth in to the orange, so sour it curled his tongue.

“What are you doing?” David exclaims, reaching out his arm to stop him. Iker gives him a look and carries on eating.

“Eating my orange.”

“You're- you're- supposed to eat one wedge at a time.” David says, laughing weakly. “What the hell, Iker.”

Iker shrugs. “What?”

“You can't eat an orange like its an apple.” David says, something unbearably fond in his voice, and he looked like he was going to say something, syllables already half shaped-

Iker waits and looks at him, just looks at him, the shape of his jaw and the harsh line of his mouth always tempered by his smiles. The space between them stilled to glass, and though Iker's waiting it's a strange feeing he's getting, like standing in front of a goal in preparation for a penalty. Suddenly he remembers, just then, what Raúl meant when he'd said _you already know_.

 David ducks his head and moves away after a moment, smooths down his hair and switches the channel on the television. They don't talk, but when Iker swings up his legs and puts them in David's lap, David lets his arms rest on Iker's calves, thumb absently drawing circles on Iker's skin.

The cicadas were causing such a racket outside, but the sound seeps through the half open window as softly as a breeze.)

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> the first quote is from [here](http://www.sbnation.com/soccer/2015/5/13/8602481/iker-casillas-foul-throw-real-madrid-juventus-champions-league) (don't read it you will be filled with aggressive angst. like me.) 
> 
>  
> 
> thanks for reading, and comments always appreciated <3


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